


Keep Breathing

by Greenninjagal



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Deceit is a polyglot, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Virgil is a baker because I said so, also rich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenninjagal/pseuds/Greenninjagal
Summary: Virgil exhales shakily, just one breath away from sobbing. There so many things he wants to say, but they all get caught up in the lump in his throat.He wants to scream, but he knows where that will get him, knows what that would do to Dee. He wants to cry and beg and curl up in a ball where nothing can touch him, but the first two haven’t done anything in the past endless hours, and the last one has been made impossible by the way his arms were zip tied behind his back and around the pole. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to pretend like the voice of Dee over the phone is him really just sitting next to Virgil on the bed talking him out of a panic induced spiral.“Just breathe for me, Liebing,” Dee says. “Just breathe. I’ll get you out of there.”Virgil inhales sharply. “I-- I know,” He manages with a wet laugh. “I kn-now you will. And I-- I’ll kill you m-myself for this.”***aka Virgil gets kidnapped.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Deceit Sanders
Comments: 22
Kudos: 333





	Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look another tumblr prompt that got the best of me.

**“I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but you have to trust me, Okay?”** The voice says over the phone. “You hear me, Love? Virgil?”

Virgil can hear him. He can hear him so clearly it _hurts_ worse than the throbbing in the back of his head, or the bruising on his ribs, or the _knife wound in his shoulder._ Virgil can’t remember the last time words had cut so cleanly through the crackling air like a blade all on their own.

He shouldn’t have been surprised though. Given who was speaking. Dee always did have that way with languages, slipping his tongue around foreign syllables and phrases and lulling Virgil to sleep on restless nights with just his voice, a book, and fingers treading through his hair.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” Dee tells him, in perfect English. “I promise.”

Virgil exhales shakily, just one breath away from sobbing. There so many things he wants to say, but they all get caught up in the lump in his throat.

He wants to scream, but he knows where that will get him, knows what that would do to Dee. He wants to cry and beg and curl up in a ball where nothing can touch him, but the first two haven’t done anything in the past endless hours, and the last one has been made impossible by the way his arms were zip tied behind his back and around the pole. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to pretend like the voice of Dee over the phone is him really just sitting next to Virgil on the bed talking him out of a panic induced spiral.

“Just breathe for me, _Liebing_ ,” Dee says. “Just breathe. I’ll get you out of there.”

Virgil inhales sharply. “I-- I know,” He manages with a wet laugh. “I kn-now you will. And I-- I’ll kill you m-myself for this.” 

He thinks Dee nearly laughs, one of those wet, terrible laughs of his that only came out when he was nearing his breaking point, but the phone is pulled away from his ear at that moment. He strains after it in a panic, but his captor give him a sharp kick to the side and Virgil falls back against the pole, with his shoulder screaming in pain.

“There,” The criminal says, “Proof of Life, Mr. Ekans. Your lovely fiancee is still breathing, although if you don’t follow my orders exactly, he won’t be for much longer.”

Virgil thinks if he wasn’t so terrified out of his mind, he might have found that funny. Dee? Following someone else’s orders? Ever since Virgil had met him in Third grade Dee had avoided rules like the plague. When he had disappeared after highschool, Virgil had thought that Dee had gone off and died somewhere in a ditch, but he had returned just seven years later, with that same smirk and that spark in his eyes like he knew everything Virgil was thinking in any moment.

They hadn’t been friends, but they had been acquaintances. Once or twice they had been lab partners in Chemistry, and they had nodded to each other in the halls.

It was ridiculous that Virgil hadn’t even noticed how much he missed that normalcy, that routine, that quiet interaction, until the day before Graduation when Dee had invoked a Senior Skip Day and Virgil had ghosted between classes without seeing him at all. It was even more ridiculous that Virgil had turned that sad feeling over in his chest a billion times and realized somewhere north of 3:24 A.M. that he had had a crush on Dante Ethan Ekans for three years based just on nods in the hallways and that one time Dee had offered him part of a sandwich when the school lunch had looked particularly terrible. 

Then Dee hadn’t shown up to Graduation. Or the last day of school.

Virgil had found out the week after from gossip in a friend group that Dee had packed up his bags and gone for a journey to find himself with no returning ETA. 

And again, Virgil hadn’t been friends with him so it hadn’t made sense that he felt angry not to have been told this directly. But the weight of that realization had crushed his tentative heart where it was in his chest. 

There had been other boys, because seven years is a long time and boys were pretty, but they had never worked out. They had asked too much of him, or expected something different, or loved too brashly. At the end of each relationship Virgil had found himself lying on his bed wondering what had happened to the brunette boy with the nearly yellow eyes who once helped him light a Bunsen Burner. 

Virgil had gone to college. He had gotten a BA in Culinary Arts, with an emphasis on Baking and Pastries, which literally no one had seen coming, including himself. He had gotten a lease and opened up a bakery three counties from where he grew up and sent his mother danishes on the weekends when he couldn’t visit. 

Then two months later, Dee had walked right into his bakery like he had never left. Virgil had nearly dropped a pan of muffins at the sight of him. That smile was the same, and those eyes, and habit of picking at his nails when he was nervous. But he had yellow highlights in his hair and a tattoo of a snake on his back and three scars over his knuckles.

“You might not remember me,” Dee had said as if Virgil had ever been able to forget him, “But we went to high school together and I...I’ve traveled all over the world and still think you are the most amazing thing in it.”

And Virgil had remembered why he had fallen for Dee in the first place all over again.

When Dee had asked Virgil to marry him four years later, he hadn’t hesitated to say yes.

Because it had been Dee, and Dee had chosen to stay in that town with Virgil, had chosen to pick up a business job, had chosen to to go on several dates with Virgil, had chosen to stay through every fit and fight and argument, had chosen to get down on one knee and offer Virgil that ring that was on a necklace around his neck right now.

Dee had also casually forgotten to mention that he was freaking _loaded_ until the moment that Virgil had been walking out of his bakery nearly dead on his feet last night and someone had swung a crowbar directly into the back of his head.

“And I’m not sure I need to remind you what will happen if you call the police,” Virgil’s captor says airily, “But I will anyway--”

Without warning the man turns back to Virgil and swings his heel directly into Virgil’s wounded shoulder. Agony rips through Virgil’s entire being, drowning out all of his thoughts until all there was left was a burning, blazing pain and his own screams. Tears streamed down his face, choking him as he wrestled against the bindings in an attempt to curl around the injury. His vision turns white and black like TV static and his sobs echo throughout the empty warehouse like they were mocking him.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Dee’s voice.

Faintly, he registers the captor over him, is delighting in Virgil’s pain.

Faintly, he recalls the price the man just put on Virgil’s life, and that Dee didn’t hesitate to agree to it.

The criminal over him ends the call with a click of a button, and Virgil whimpers. His shoulder feels like someone was holding an open flame to it, his wrists burn where the zip tie are latched far too tightly to his skin.

“Hmm,” the man says softly, “I can’t say I see what he sees in you.” He reaches down and holds Virgil by the jaw, turning his head from side to side to examine him, as if he’s a piece of meat for sale. Virgil’s skin burns coldly at the touch, like its frostbite threatening to take over his whole body and kill him on the spot.

“ _Liebing_ ,” His captor says, teasingly. His free hand shifts to his pocket and he brings out that switchblade again-- Virgil tenses to get away from it, even with his shoulder weeping lava. With a _shri-ckk_ the metallic knife slips out, still streaked with crimson where it had been lodged in Virgil’s shoulder earlier when he had talked back too much.

The man uses the blade to lift a piece of Virgil’s sweat matted hair from his face. It’s close, too close, and Virgil’s lungs beg for air he doesn’t dare give them.

“P-please,” He chokes.

“P-please,” The man mimics, with a cruel smile. “Your future husband seemed to be in an awful hurry to get you back. He has twenty hours; I wonder how much fun the two of us can have while we wait.” 

Virgil squeezes his eyes closed, trying not to shake. The knife tip boops his nose and the man laughs releasing him easily. In another moment Virgil hears the sound of tape ripping and feels the sudden force of his mouth being covered.

“Shhhh,” The man says, using his thumb to rub away a stream of Virgil’s tears.

Virgil doesn’t dare open his eyes until he hears those footsteps retreat all the way across the warehouse and the door opens and closes as the man leaves him alone.

Virgil twists his wrists again, but it only succeeds in turning his hands into a sticky sweltering mess and his shoulder whines in pain again. He grunts through the duct tape hanging his head to his chest.

Dee promised him he’d be okay. Dee didn’t make empty promises. He lied sometimes, like he lied when he called in sick to work that time that Virgil took off and they spent the entire day cuddling and watching conspiracy theories on TV, or that time that Virgil’s baby cousin Ed’s hamster died and Dee had told him it had gone on a perilous journey to defeat a dragon that was too dangerous to take Ed with him, or that time that they had gone for dinner at Virgil’s parents and Dee had told his mother that the potatoes were the best that he had ever had while shoveling it into a napkin under the table.

Dee lied, but he did not make empty promises. 

He promised Virgil he wasn’t going to leave again and then he got a job in office building; he promised Virgil to find that one brand of chocolate Virgil liked even though he had to go to eleven different stores to find it; he promised him that they would leave that business dinner party the second that Virgil got uncomfortable, even if that was only twenty three minutes in; he promised him that one day they were gonna get married on a beach with the sea salt dusting their tuxes as they said “I do”.

So if he said that Virgil is going to be okay, Virgil is going to be okay.

Virgil doesn’t know what to do if he doesn’t cling to that pathetic hope.

A flicker of shadow draws Virgil’s attention, and his head snaps up, preparing to...to...protect himself from whatever he could. Instead his breath stutters to a halt.

The shadow is a figure on the roof, someone who is slim but fit and easily opens the glass pane to lower themselves inside. The shadow is a figure who manages to slip from the catwalks to the warehouse floor in barely a minute.

The shadow is a man who kneels beside Virgil and peered at him behind square glasses, “My name is Logan Ackroyd. I’m here to escort you out of this situation, but first I must know where your captor went.” The shadow is a very real person and Virgil can’t tear his eyes from the yellow bold letters F.B.I. on his jacket. 

“Mr. Storm,” Logan says sternly, like Virgil is back in school and one snarky comment away from getting detention again. “Please quietly look in the direction where your captor went.”

Virgil’s eyes flicker to the far door, his breath noticeably short and reckless and violent. With every inhale he feels like he’s getting less and less oxygen in his body. 

“Prince,” The FBI agent says into a comm, “He’s at the North Entrance.” Then he swiftly moves around Virgil to his hands. Virgil can’t help but flinch at the motion, drawing a nauseating screech of pain from himself.

“Apologies,” Logan says, “I am going to cut you loose. Please refrain from moving unnecessarily. There’s a medical team on standby. I can see your shoulder wound, but are there any other locations that will require immediate attention?”

Virgil lets out another sob, a relieved sob as he shakes his head. Or possibly doesn’t. He doesn’t know if its even noticeable from how the rest of his body is vibrating like all his atoms are slowly pulling him apart.

“I’m going to do a breathing exercise, Mr. Storm. Can you please breathe with me while I count?” Logan says calmly again. Virgil’s head spins at how calm he is when there’s _nothing_ calming about this situation. Still the counting is even and steady, flowing over Virgil like the sound of a timer while he’s working in the kitchen. When he closes his eyes, he can even pretend its Dee counting for him, whispering praises when he manages to hold his breath for that endless seven seconds.

“It’s going to be okay.” Logan says, as he cuts through the zip tie and picks his way under Virgil’s uninjured arm. He peels off the duct tap to make it easier to breathe and Virgil falls against him without meaning to.

He’s breathing. Like Dee told him to do. Just keep breathing.

The next thing he knows there are police and FBI all over the place. There’s a several medics that come rushing to them, who help guide Logan and him outside to a standing ambulance. The noise is loud and quiet at the same time: like a screaming match drowned out by the buzzing in Virgil’s head.

He tries to focus on Dee, what Dee said to him, what Dee has said before: all those times he asked Virgil what new language he should try on Duolingo , all those times Dee tried teaching Virgil new phrases over romantic TV dinners and store bought wine, all those times that Dee idly said how much he loved him in the middle of a conversation with no prompting. 

_Just keep breathing._ Dee had said.

“Virgil!” 

The voice is a strike of lightning in the swirling madness around him. Virgil hiccups a sob and suddenly Dee is right there in front of him, pushing Logan out of the way to get closer to him.

“Virgil,” Dee says again gently taking his face in both his hands. There are tears in his eyes and his mouth spouts out words like a waterfall, “Virgil, _Liebing_ , Love, Angel, Darling, my Sun, my Soul,--”

Virgil lets out a wail and flings himself into Dee’s arms, completely ignoring the medics and the burning of his shoulder, because this was _Dee_ and Dee was...

Dee was safety. He was everything.

“Its okay,” Dee sobs with one hand in Virgil’s hair and the other wrapped around his waist holding him as close as they can get.

And Virgil believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god when was the last time I wrote hurt/comfort?? have I ever??  
> Regardless, come scream at me on my Tumblr for more writing!


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